


High Fantasy

by TotalSkeletonTrash



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalSkeletonTrash/pseuds/TotalSkeletonTrash
Summary: If I gave you my elevator pitch, it would ruin it





	High Fantasy

 

“There’s a guy coming.” The boy at the top of the wall called down.

Clay squinted up from the shade cast by the guardhouse, trying to pick out the boy’s slight silhouette. Until this point, it had been an extremely quiet shift. Clay generally enjoyed quiet shifts, as they gave him the opportunity to prop himself against the wall and read. However, nearly anything would be a welcome distraction from “The Suffering of the Virtuous Lady of the Heights.” He straightened up promptly, and waited for the rest of the boy’s report.

After several minutes, he inferred that the boy was not inclined to report any further.  “A guy?” Clay called up, in what he hoped was a professorial tone. This was a mental compromise. He was technically supposed to be teaching the kid the basics, but he didn’t have it in him to do the drill sergeant routine, having met far too many insecure pricks who loved the drill sergeant routine.

“Yep.” The boy replied through a yawn. “Just a guy.”

Clay mulled this over, then settled back against the wall, reluctantly returning his attention to his book. Next time, he would ask the librarian for one with fewer balls. _The Suffering of the Virtuous Lady of the Heights_ was fully ball-centric; people were always getting invited to balls, getting snubbed because they weren’t invited to balls, doing elaborate dances at balls, feeling foolish because they didn’t know the elaborate dance everyone else was doing at the ball, et cetera, et cetera. It was baffling and alien.

Clay’s experience with balls was much more practical: when he grabbed them hard and twisted, the guy trying to kill him usually threw up and passed out.

He slogged through another few paragraphs. The titular Lady of The Heights had accidentally dirtied her silk slipper, but from the author’s tone, Clay was guessing it was a metaphor for sex, which was something that the Lady of the Heights was not supposed to have. Also, for some reason, everyone had started speaking in rhyming couplets.

A fat honeybee landed on the book’s spine and peered over the edge at him, unfurling its proboscis slightly. That was probably also a metaphor for sex, he thought grouchily, then looked down on the page, where the Alabaster Prince had just rhymed “cleanliness” with “manliness.” That was enough. He gently shooed the bee, then clapped the book shut. “The guy still coming?”

“What?”

“The guy. From like four minutes ago.” Clay prompted. “Is he still coming?”

“Oh. Sorry,” the boy said, “it’s not a guy. It’s a girl in armor. And a horse.”

“Huh.” Clay’s brow furrowed. “What’s she look like?”

“I dunno, she’s wearing armor.” The boy said flatly. Clay rubbed his temple. He had a hard time sorting all the new recruits in his head, but he was beginning to remember this kid from the last time they’d done a watch together. This recruit was the one who didn’t say stuff good.

“Well, like… you know, is she an orc? Or whatever?” Clay encouraged, his learned scholar act slipping slightly.

“I dunno, she’s wearing armor.” The boy repeated, in exactly the same tone as before. Clay scowled up at the boy’s silhouette, then set the book down on the ground. This was a poor way to treat a library book, but then again, it was a very bad book. He gave it one last annoyed glare, then ducked through the narrow doorway by the guardhouse and ascended the cramped stairs, minding his head the whole way. Clay stood a solid foot and a half taller than most long-term Farhold residents, so nearly everything indoors involved a great deal of crouching and ducking for him. He’d taken the guard position without hesitation the moment it was offered to him; there were very few ceilings involved.

The boy on the top of the wall was decidedly un-tall. He would have needed to stand on a crate to see over any of the merlons. Clay had read in “A Study of Defensive Architectural Developments in Carrow” that ‘merlon’ was the proper name for one of the bits that stuck up at the top of a wall. You were supposed to hide behind a merlon when you weren’t shooting arrows through a ‘crenel.’ A crenel was the proper name for the space where the boy was standing, directly in plain view in one of the gaps between the merlons. Clay had never met anyone that actually used either term, but he was furthering his education, and he’d be damned if he didn’t drag everyone else with him.

“You’re technically supposed to be behind the merlon if you see a guy.” He told the kid.  

The boy did not look away from the road to acknowledge Clay’s presence, but he did mutter, “Huge horse. Biggest horse of all time.” Clay followed his gaze to the huge animal inching its way up the steep mountain road, growing incrementally closer to the gate.

“Yup. That’s a big beefy boy.” The boy looked up at him, and stared for so long that Clay felt the need to add more context. “That’s a war horse. They breed ‘em big so they can carry a person in plate armor. Expensive as hell, I’m pretty sure. I’ve seen them out east, but we don’t really get them here because of how bad the roads are. Well. Used to be.” The boy blinked at him said nothing. Clay consigned himself to carrying both parts of this conversation, and forged onwards. “You remember the old road, how it went straight up the mountain?” He asked the boy, who shook his head.

“I didn’t live in Farhold back then.” The boy said, his intonation making it clear that Clay should have known that.

Clay studied the kid, considering this. “Well, the way I hear it, that’s maybe for the best. It wasn’t so great back then, I guess. I wouldn’t have moved here twenty years ago, if I’d had the choice.” He nodded generally at the wall, then again at the road snaking up the mountain to meet them. For a moment they both fell silent, watching the huge horse navigate the first of many switchbacks. “What’s your name again, recruit?” He’d been putting this question off because he was reasonably certain the answer was something godawful.

“Spiders. Spiders Mungus.” The boy said.

Oof. “Nickname or…?”

“Nah. My mom just likes spiders.” Spiders explained.

Clay allowed himself to process this.

“Godson, no kidding.” He said under his breath. “Well. Sorry, that’s…”  He cleared his throat. “Er. Anyway. You like it in Farhold, Spiders?” Clay asked. Spiders immediately nodded, looking flabbergasted at the question. “Yeah,” Clay said, “everywhere else is kind of… you know. Bad. In comparison.”

The boy grunted noncommittally, then fell silent, his unblinking gaze still fixed on the small figure below.

“Hey.” Clay said after a while. “Your eyes are better than mine. What’s on her shield? You know. The lady.”

“Owl.” Spiders said at once. “Farhold owl, I mean. You know. Like on the tapestries?”  

Huh. Clay tilted his head and squinted, trying to think of anyone he knew who would possibly be in full plate armor decorated with their sigil. Maybe it wasn’t actually a lady? Sander probably had a Farhold shield somewhere, but obviously, it wasn’t Sander; he wouldn’t be able to stand up with that much armor on, much less mount a horse. Clay wasn’t entirely sure Sander could even ride a horse.

Spiders clearly thought Clay was still stuck on the Mystery of Which Owl it Was. “Or the owl on the Farhold flag?” He continued, adopting his own scholarly tone. “Or on our uniforms, or-”

“Yeah. I get it.” Clay said, and scratched his chin. “Last I checked, we didn’t have anyone patrolling outside the gates. Or full plate armor. Or enormous horses, for that matter, so I’m unclear on who the hell- oh.” He fell very still as a tremendously unpleasant possibility occurred to him. “Oh… balls.” He muttered, putting a hand on Spiders’ shoulder and pushing him swiftly behind a merlon.

“What?” Spiders asked, peeking back around to look at the approaching woman. Clay scowled.

“Recruit, get out of sight.” His professorial tone had vanished. Spiders, probably sensing that things might be actually serious, immediately skittered back behind the merlon. “Okay.” Clay was thinking hard, gaze still fixed on the distant figure winding her way up the mountain. “Mungus. Run up to the castle, find Sander, and bring him down here as fast as possible.” He directed, then, just to be clear, added; “When I say ‘Sander,’ I mean Lord Lysander, okay, not ‘Sander the Guy Who Thinks Wearing A Tiny Hat And Having A Pet Snake Is The Same As Having A Personality.’” Clay glanced at the position of the sun in the sky. “It’s around noon, he’s more than likely still in the Dwarven District helping with Olm’s new forge.” Clay instructed. Spiders goggled at him.

“What do I tell him?”

Clay clenched his jaw, thinking about it. “Tell him I think someone’s pretending to be his sister.” He muttered after a moment. “I don’t love that. That’s a really weird con to try to pull.”  He expected Spiders to tear off, but Spiders continued to stare at him with wide, unblinking eyes. The kid was unnerving, Clay would say that much for him. “Is there something you’re waiting for?” He asked the small boy, frustrated.

“Uh. What if it actually is his sister?” Spiders asked.

It was the obvious question; Clay had just been hoping Spiders wouldn’t ask it. “Better hope it’s not.” He said at last, staring down at the woman in plate armor. “If it is…” He hesitated, choosing his words judiciously.

“Sir?” Spiders finally interjected.

Clay fiddled with a belt loop, jaw tensing. Finally, he looked down at the boy. “...We’re profoundly fucked.”  

______________________________

It took forever to get even halfway up the mountain, because some moron had decided to get rid of the old trail to Farhold and replace it with a paved road that had a hundred thousand little turns in it. She understood the purpose of putting a mountain road on a gradual incline, of course. It was much easier for carts or trading caravans to make its way up the mountainside to Farhold this way. Perfectly rational for any other mountainside fiefdom. Dumb here.

Even at its most prosperous, as Lucia recalled it, Farhold hadn’t needed anything terribly fancy. Merchants only rarely went this far east. Hell, even bandits and orcs generally left the place undisturbed, especially now that her father was dead. Why bother? What was a trader going to barter for, or villainous mob going to steal, stones? Emaciated livestock? If they were lucky, some mealy apples? 

The old trail had gone nearly straight down the mountain, because it had served a singular purpose; it got a person out of Farhold. Fast. 

Stomp took his sweet time plodding around each hairpin bend, making his displeasure known with each heavy footfall as he sulked his way upwards. Lucia sympathized. Stomp wasn’t accustomed to sustained uphill exertion; hell, he rarely had to take her any distance longer than a battlefield while she was wearing plate armor. Perhaps wearing the armor had been overkill. It had been Rigel’s idea that she should be fully armed and armored, and the source of that idea alone should have been sufficient for her to recognize it wasn’t well thought out. 

Then again, the last time she’d gone for an unarmored ride around these parts, she’d ended up - if you were going to get technical about it - dead. And even if it wasn’t like orcs or goblins had any reason to raid up here anymore, it wasn’t like she was being stealthy. Furthermore, the forest on Fenton’s Folly was dense, until you reached Farhold anyway. Lots of places to set up an ambush if you wanted to try to take out some idiot traveling alone. 

She was being ridiculous, but a surplus of caution was fine, she decided. She would keep her bow in her hand, and she and Stomp would take it slow. Why rush? It wasn’t exactly like she was strolling home with good news - at least, not the way that her brother would see it.

The look on his face was going to be so obnoxious. 

In the end, the ascent took her roughly an hour, and an uneventful one at that. There were no goblins waiting to finish what they’d started, no orcs ready to demonstrate how easily they could beat the King’s most trusted warrior. Just a steep, plodding, repetitive path. Well, and one time, a squirrel. At long last, one final sharp turn in the road brought her free of the forest and onto the small plateau that marked the western border of her home. 

Or.

Well.

It had certainly marked the border when she was a kid, but… 

She stared up at the towering wall that had suddenly materialized before her, astonished. “Oh… Oh Justin.” She muttered, gripping tight to the horn of her saddle as she began to calculate how much a fortification like this must have cost - and that was presuming, of course, the wall was only on the westernmost border. Generally, border walls tended to go the whole way around. “I’m going to kill him. I’m actually going to kill him. Nobody would blame me.” She told Stomp, half-dazed. 

“Who?” Someone asked conversationally. 

She had nocked an arrow and raised her bow in the direction of the voice before she spotted the speaker and her rational mind caught up with her reflex. There was a guard on the top of the wall, head and shoulders taller than the… the sticky up part of the wall. He was holding his hands up to show that he was not in the process of trying to kill her, and looked otherwise unruffled to have an arrow aimed at him. Lucia processed that the man was dressed in her house colors and winced. Fantastic. Apparently it wasn’t enough for Sander to sink Farhold into debt building enormous goddamn walls, he also had to staff them with enormous goddamn guards! 

“Uh.” She said, staring up at the man. There was an uncomfortable pause, then she remembered herself, and lowered her bow. In turn, he lowered his hands. Then he just stood there, staring at her. 

There was always a part of Lucia that would not permit her to settle until she could see clearly how she might beat a potential foe. This one… he could theoretically be a challenge, she admitted to herself. For one, she could tell that he was not a stranger to combat; probably a veteran. Nobody stood up that straight unless they’d had it smacked into them. Furthermore, he wasn’t just tall, he was solid, unlike Rigel, whose muscles seemed to be mostly cosmetic. This man was built like an orc. His hair was straight and unfashionably short, and his square jaw was beardless, even though he had to be around thirty. His skin was several shades lighter than hers, though not as half as pale as Rigel’s-

“Sorry, it’s just that, uh… you know. Guarding. It’s my job. Can’t just let you come in and do murders.” The guard prompted, cutting off her train of thought. She realized, her face feeling suddenly warm, that she had been silently staring at him. 

“Oh. God. No. Not actually planning on killing anyone. Figure of speech. Just uh, home… for a visit. Er. Lucia. Is me. You know…” Fantastic start. She jutted her chin at the gate, then, when that didn’t seem to have any effect, made a vague gesture. “Of, uh… Farhold?” He continued to stare placidly at her. “I’m technically? Uh? S’posed to be half-in-charge… how long has there been a gate and a wall and you... here?” 

“Lucia.” He somehow stretched her name out to nearly five syllables. “Nice to meet you. I’m Clay. I’m a guard.”

She had a sneaking suspicion that he was fucking with her.

“Pleasure.” She found herself saying.

“Likewise.” He said affably. “As for the wall, we’ve had it since around… oh, right before I got here, so five years, I’d say? The gate, you know, it came with the wall. So also five years, I’d say.”

“That makes sense.” She admitted helplessly, looking the wall over again. Clay nodded.

“It’s really a very good wall.” He said. “It does everything it’s supposed to. Stops people from getting in. And so on.” 

Oh, he was absolutely fucking with her. She found her bearings at last, spurred out of inaction by the very faint hint of a smile on his face.

“Guardsman Clay, please open the gate. I am the Lady of this fiefdom, and I need to speak with my brother.”

“It’s Commander Clay, actually, but you know, we’re not really formal about that up here.” He corrected gently. “And it’ll just be a minute. I’m waiting to get the okay from my manager.” He said. Before she could pick that sentence apart, he was speaking again. “So. You’re Lucia, huh?” 

“...Yes?” She said, exasperated. She was wearing exactly the wrong outfit for this situation. If she were in her normal clothes, she probably could have scaled the wall fast enough to evade him. Well. Maybe.

“I don’t mean to be rude.” Clay continued, although they both knew that he absolutely did. “It’s just that, you know, when I started everyone told me that Lucia never visits. No offense. Seriously. But everyone says the King’s Shield has a permanent position in the Capital?” She must have winced, because he added, “Ah, sorry. Not your favorite?“

“Do they really call me that up here? The King’s Shield?” She asked, shaking her head slowly, trying to come to grips with this. At least it was only the King’s Shield. There were worse names out there. 

“Sure.” Clay looked like he might be about to crack.”Everyone knows Lucia’s a hero. Lots of fancy titles, we even know about ‘em in a backwater like Farhold. Lemme think. ‘King’s Shield, Hero of Brighthelm, the Hordeslayer, Orcsdoom, the Harrier, The Chaste Angel-’“

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” She groaned, her shoulders sagging.

“What?” He was definitely losing the battle against a crooked smile now. “You don’t like ‘The Chaste Angel?’”

“They make me sound like a conceited asshole! You know, nobody asked me if I wanted a series of obnoxious nicknames. That just happens to you. Nobody asks, hey, want to be known by a nickname that is also a reference to virginity. ‘oh, hey, guess who’s coming to town, Rebecca?’ ‘I don’t know, Charles, who?’ ‘it’s the girl with the sword who doesn’t put out! Awesome!’” She mimicked, her voice growing louder than was altogether dignified. 

“...Well, no, I guess they wouldn’t ask.” Clay seemed to really be thinking about this. “Don’t they just kind of take poetic license? I mean, that’s kind of what b-“

“It’s fucking bards!” She agreed, cutting him off. “They come up with absolute horseshit to justify writing terrible songs, or worse, plays-“

“I saw the Hero of Brighthelm one. You know. The musical. We had a travelling troupe through last winter.” He offered. She groaned. “It wasn’t bad.” Clay quickly added, in a consoling tone. “I liked your number at the end about Justin’s watchful eye.”

“That’s the one where they said I saved Prince Rigel from the team of assassins in the inn in Brighthelm, right?” She drawled. “Know what that actually was? One guy. One guy, and the guy spilled white wine on Rige by accident. Not even red. White. It washed out. My heroism was basically convincing the guy not to punch Rige when he hit hour three of complaining about it to everyone who came through the door.”

“You’re kidding me.” Clay said flatly, though he didn’t exactly look surprised.

“‘Fraid not.” She sighed, then nodded at the gate again. “Seriously, though. Can I come in?”

“Eh….” Clay glanced behind him. “Sorry. Can you hang tight for like… ten more minutes? I sent a guy to get Lysander-“

“Justin Godson, you’re kidding me.” She interrupted, “Lysander is the ‘boss?’” She was astonished.

“Why wouldn’t he be? He’s technically the Lord here, just like you’re saying you’re the Lady.” Clay said, looking confused again. “Also, should you be taking Justin’s name in vain, I thought the King was all about anti-blasphemy-“

“Isn’t Lysander in University?” She said, her brows knit.

“Uh, not for eight years. He dropped out.”

“Figures.” Lysander had always been more into mirrors and very tall hats than learning and hard work. She’d always assumed that his endeavor to become a Majestic Wizard or whatever it was they were churning out of the University these days was unlikely to ever come to fruition.

“Hey, c’mon.” Clay protested. “Not because he couldn’t hack it. From what everyone tells me, he was actually pretty good, just Farhold needed running, and what’s his name, the steward-“

“Stewart. Stewart the Steward.” She said pointedly.

“I have a hard time with dumb names.” Clay admitted. “Right. Stewart the Steward was raiding the limited coffers, so Lysander dropped out, came home, and took over. Had to give up the whole magik-y thing, but he’s a good Lord, you know? How… I mean, no offense, but how do you not know this, if you’re his sister?”

“Because he sends exactly one message a year. ‘No need to go home. I just checked. All is well. Love, Sander. P.S. Will try to see you next year. Very busy.’” She quoted wryly. 

“Well... good news. You can… Hang on.” Clay abruptly ducked out of view, and for a moment, Lucia was left to process this development in silence. Then, at long last, the gate slowly began to raise. Before it was all the way up, Lucia could see who was on the other side. No other idiot would be wearing a cape made entirely out of white feathers.

“Sander!” She called weakly, clambering off Stomp with a series of metallic clangs and thumps. When she found her footing, she stepped toward Sander, at first hurriedly, but almost immediately slowing her pace. She took in her brother, all familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, and suddenly felt unsure. 

She knew those clever brown eyes as well as her own, but when they’d last been together, he’d avoided her gaze - avoided everyone’s gaze, really. She remembered him like that, fourteen years old and anxious and slight, an awkward tangle of sharp knees and elbows and transparent bravado. He had embraced every outrageous fashion statement, every absurd affectation that would signify that he might not be able to lift a sword, but that he was powerful, arcane, mysterious. In her head, he’d been that teenager all this time, ungainly and defensive, but of course - of  _ course! _ \- he had grown up, just as she had.

His skin had always been somewhat sickly looking - a byproduct of hours spent in his study, while she’d been toiling in the training yard. Now, though, it was the same dark brown as hers, and it suited him. He had grown his thick mane of black hair longer than he’d been permitted to as a young man, which also suited him, although frankly, the two gilded feathers braided into it were a bit much in her opinion. He moved differently, too, almost gracefully, like a dancer or a gymnast. The whole experience was something like expecting to see a vulture and being greeted instead by a peacock - though maybe that was just all the feathers influencing her. His taste in fashion, at least, had not improved. 

“Hey.” The young man said warily, strolling closer. “Who are you…” He trailed off. “Holy shit. Holy… Justin, it’s you. Luce.” His eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open slightly. “Luce, it’s actually… what are you… shit! Luce!” He yelped, and all that grace and coordination went out the window as he abruptly sprinted towards her.

“Sander, I-“ She trailed off as her twin reached her and attempted to crush her in a hug- “Oof, hang on-“

“Ouch! What the - Luce?“

“Yeah, sorry, armor pointy-“

“Why though?”

“Well, where was I supposed to leave it?!”

“In the Capital? With the King?” Sander sputtered.

“I traveled on my own for a week and a half to get here-“

“Why though!?” He exclaimed again.

“It’s a long and stupid story.” She sighed, then looked him over again, “Godson, I’ve missed you, Sander. I can’t believe… you’re old now, you know?”

“Never.” He said darkly. “Never, ever say such things.” He paused, still glaring, then cracked, giving her a brilliant, contagious grin. “I’m twenty-six. Furthermore, so are you.” He said, mockingly indignant.

“You’ve got a wrinkle forming.” She couldn’t help herself.

“Heretic! Where’s the headsman, we’ve got one right here, boys!” He laughed, then shook his head. “God, look at you. You really do look the same as you did when you left. I mean, no, you’re technically different, you’re taller, looks like you picked up a few more scars.”

“A few is mild.” She rolled her eyes. “If I had a scar for every person who tried to kill Rige, I’d-”

“ _ Rige?! _ ” He exclaimed, eyes alight. “Who’s  _ Rige _ ? Surely not our Prince Pissbag, don’t tell me you have pet names for each other- oh, relax.” He chided, when she immediately fell still at the mention of ‘Prince Pissbag.’ “No inquisitors here, I won’t get turned in for blasphemy, unless you’ve gone fundamentalist on me.” He laughed, though she could not avoid noticing that he did tense up slightly as he talked. 

“Don’t worry.” She reassured him, dropping her voice. “I haven’t been in the Capitol long enough for mass murders in the name of Justin to make sense yet.” Sander grinned at that. 

“I figured, but you can’t be too careful these days. Fuck, though, it’s… it’s really great to see you. Luce, we need to talk though-“

“No shit.” She looked over Lysander’s shoulder at the gateway, where the guard, Clay, was awkwardly hovering. “Like, for example, how the hell do we have money for a border wall? Or guards for that matter? And also why do we have those things?”

“Well, that’s part of the discussion.” Lysander suddenly looked very serious. “I uh… Look. You have to promise me that you won’t freak out.”

“...What do you mean?”  She said slowly, brow furrowing. She had been asked to make that same promise often enough in her childhood, and invariably, it had been for something meriting a full scale panic. 

“It’s this whole… Look. You actually can’t freak out. If you freak out, and you start running, Clay’s coming after you and he’ll kind of have to drag you back in-“

“Not super comfortable with it, but I said I’d do it!” Clay called from the doorway.

“-Because this is sort of a life or death situation for a lot of people, you understand?” Lysander said, clapping his hand to Lucia’s shoulder. “And also, Clay probably actually could take you down. He’s the sole survivor of the Litchrow prison massacre.” Clay shrugged from the doorway. Lucia frowned, apprehension settling around her not unlike a full length cape made of feathers.

“I… I really don’t understand.” She said, weighing her words carefully. “What’s so.. I mean, why are you - we, hiring cons? Why the song and dance? Why the evasiveness or the uh, the …. the furtive glances!” She snapped, when Sander looked over his shoulder at Clay again. “Hey, asshole, stop giving that guard furtive glances and answer me!” Lysander and Clay both looked back at her at the same moment. Clay at least had the decency to look guilty. Lysander just looked slightly ill. It took him another painful half-minute before he found his words again. 

“Look, Luce.” He said. “After dad died and you left, things here were… they were worse than bad. They were a disaster. Like, the people who wouldn’t leave their homes were starving. We couldn’t heat the castle. Fucking… Stewart, he took everything he could get his gnarly old hands on and ran off. It was really grim. People were going to die. I didn’t… I couldn’t…” He shook his head. “But I… look, I figured it out. I figured out how to keep everyone alive, and keep money coming in, and make it all work. And technically, it shouldn’t be illegal. If it wasn’t for the Morality Code, also, it wouldn’t be illegal. So really, like, if it’s not harming anyone-“

“Sander.” Lucia had a terrible anxious feeling in her stomach. “What are you talking about?” Lysander froze, shrinking slightly into his spectacular cape.

“Just show her. Then you’ll know, one way or the other.” Clay offered. Lysander glanced over his shoulder at the huge man once again, then nodded.

“Alright. Okay. This is fine. C’mon.” Having made up his mind, Lysander spun on his heel and walked rapidly through the doorway. Lucia eyed him, then looked up at Stomp, who snorted at her. “I’ll be right back.” She told him. The horse snorted again, swishing his tail. She patted his mane once, apologetically, then followed her brother, slightly clumsily on foot, through the gate.

The smell hit her first, before she processed entirely what she was seeing. When she’d last been here, the little arable land that existed in Farhold had been dominated by an anemic vineyard and a truly pathetic orchard, crops that could be grown on hilly terrain, with the benefit of rich soils or mild weather. These were gone now, replaced by large, terraced fields, each entirely planted with…

“Sander.” She said slowly. “Is that uh…”

“It is.” He confirmed quietly.

The two siblings looked out over the fields of marijuana. Lucia lurched forward and inspected a plant, her expression blank and distant. Lysander and Clay both followed her. Clay didn’t look particularly perturbed, but Lysander looked like he might vomit.

“Oh god. Oh… Justin.” Lucia breathed, then turned to stare at her brother. “How fast can you get rid of it?!”

“What?” Lysander said, alarmed.

“Can’t do that.” Clay said firmly. Lucia whirled, and scowled at him.

“Let me put this another way.” She hissed, low and deadly. “How are we going to get rid of it all - every trace of it - in the next two weeks?”

“We’re not.” Clay and Lysander said in unison.

“Yes.” Lucia said, her eyes very wide. “We are. Because,” She looked at both men to make sure they understood the next part, “The King and his full court will be here in thirteen days, and if we don’t have this fully under wraps? We are all - everyone in Farhold is - extremely dead.”

“Oh,” said Lysander, “shit.”


End file.
